


what happens in russia

by onceuponaglassofwine



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Post 5x9, Russia, season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 18:09:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9619109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onceuponaglassofwine/pseuds/onceuponaglassofwine
Summary: there's a familiarity with the words she says to him. spec pic for 5x12





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hey Guys! 
> 
> I just really had this aching desire to write this, because I really want to see it play out on screen. Here's to stolen kisses that only happen in Russia. Thank you for reading!

Oliver sighed, falling onto his hotel bed, grabbing the remote control on his bedside table and switching on the tv. He loosened the tie around his neck, unbuttoning the top couple buttons of his dress shirt. He and the team were at one of the Brava casinos earlier that evening and while no physical punches were thrown, it was clear, they quickly were wearing out their welcome with his brothers in Russia. 

 

A knock on the door pulled him out of thoughts. He frowned, looking towards the clock; It read 11:42 pm. He hadn’t been expecting anyone and it was awfully late for a surprise visitor. 

 

He stealthily moved towards the door, creeping on feather light feet, his whole body tingling in defense — 

 

Another knock.

 

“Oliver!” came a familiar muffled voice through the door. 

 

He immediately stood straighter, relaxing. He strode purposefully towards the door, opening it. “Felicity?” He asked, concern in his tone. 

 

Her eyes were a little bloodshot, like she had been up hacking and had forgotten what time it was at night. Her hair was a mess, loose pieces falling out of her ponytail; she was wearing light blue cotton pajamas, little pandas speckled across them. Her glasses were slightly askew on her face, and he couldn't help the grin spread across his face; she was adorable. Stepping aside, he allowed her access into his room and she quickly came through the door, wringing her hands. 

 

He noticed this nervous tick, and he moved closer to her, catching her elbow in his hand. “Hey,” he said softly. “Is everything okay?” 

 

She allowed him to pull her closer to him; he never did understand personal space with her. “I’m—,” she swallowed, her eyes meeting his. “I’m okay.” 

 

His eyes strayed over her face, taking in the wrinkles over her forehead, the slight dark circles under her eyes. His hand slid up her arm, resting on her shoulder. “You’re sure?” 

 

Felicity hesitated, her lips parting just slightly. Then, looking down, she lifted one of her shoulders a little defeatedly. “I can’t sleep.” 

 

A small smile tugged at Oliver’s lips. He squeezed her shoulder, and moved farther into the room. He approached the small hotel wet bar, and she watched him with curious eyes. He pulled out a couple airplane bottles of vodka, grabbed two glasses, and motioned for her to sit on the one of the queen size beds in the room. 

 

She crawled onto the bed, bringing her legs up and sitting indian style. He placed the glasses on the night table between them, opened the bottles, and poured them an equal amount. He handed one glass to her, sat down on the bed across from her, and touched his glass to hers. 

 

“Cheers.” 

 

She smiled warmly, bringing the glass to her lips and allowing the cool liquid the slide down her throat. Bringing the glass down, she gripped it with both hands and stared into the clear liquid. 

 

“You want to talk about it?” 

 

Her eyes clouded with tears as she heard the tenderness in his voice. That was the man she fell in love with. The man who knew her better than anyone. She took a deep steadying breath, her chest and throat tight. She shook her head slightly and raised one shoulder up noncommittally. 

 

“Felicity,” he whispered, and she felt his eyes pulling hers towards them like magnets. The light from the lamp on the wall was the only light in the room, and it shown on his face, highlighting the worry in his countenance. 

 

A slow tear fell from her eye, and she reached the back of her hand up to swipe at it, looking down again at the glass in her other hand. “I didn’t love Billy,” she confessed shakily, her voice barely audible. She heard his suck in a breath, but she didn’t dare look at him. “He loved me. He told me. I couldn't say anything back. And then…” she trailed off, shuddering with more tears falling from her eyes. 

 

“I didn’t love him, Oliver, but I didn’t want him to die.” She finally looked at him, trying to read his face. He didn't look surprised, he looked somber. His eyes held such a level of understanding, that she knew that he did. Because that’s exactly how he felt about Laurel. Her pain was looking back at her in his eyes. 

 

And then the words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them: 

 

“It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have let him get involved with me. What we do every night is dangerous, and Oliver, Prometheus knew that. Prometheus knows who we are and orchestrated this whole thing, and _stupid me_ \- just trying so hard to move on from you, to see if I could have anything that could possibly be as real as we were - and he _died_. Billy’s dead because of me.” 

 

She shuddered and collapsed into sobs. This whole world that she had built, this wall was crumbling, and she couldn’t stop it, she couldn’t control it. 

 

“Hey. It’s not your fault.” 

 

Oliver whispered, placing his glass down, and moving over to her. He gathered her in his arms, kissing her hair because he could never help himself with her. He was acutely aware that this was the closest they had been since they had broken up. Smoothing her back, Oliver rubbed comforting circles over it. He held her like this for a few minutes, and he could tell she was slowing when her breathing became more regular and even. 

 

She pulled back a little bit, removing her glasses, and swiping her eyes and her nose with the sleeve of her pajamas. “Thank you,” she said. 

 

“You never have to thank me.” 

 

She looks up at him, her tearful, glittering eyes meeting his, and her breath hitches with how close they are. And suddenly, the air is charged between them. Her eyes move to his lips, licking hers subconsciously. Her hands move from her lap to his face, feeling the scruff under her finger tips. She inches closer to him. She doesn't know if its the booze or the lateness of the night, but she’s blaming both of them as she’s moving down this dangerous path.

 

He is still, but he is holding breath. She pauses, her eyes moving back up to his, where they are watching her carefully. His hands are suddenly moving up her arms, coming to rest at the place between her face and her neck. He dares to move closer, resting his forehead against hers, feeling his breath mingle with hers. He’s still watching her lips. 

 

“Felicity,” he whispers, and its like a prayer. 

 

Her eyelids are heavy as she moves forward. She knows she shouldn’t be doing this, but she so wants to forget that she shouldn’t because _it_ _feels like she should_. And then - she doesn’t know who finally initiates it — but his lips are moving across hers. Soft at first, almost hesitant, but she responds passionately, her hands wrapping around his neck and pulling his head down towards hers. 

 

She’s laying down, and he’s following her, pressing her against the pillows on the bed. In her mind, she knows that they’re crazy, but she pushes it down, but she wants this so badly. She just wants to feel something that isn’t hurt or pain. He opens his mouth, and she answers, allowing him entrance with his tongue. His mouth is hot, like fire, and she’s burning up against him, losing herself in him as she so easily does. 

 

Suddenly, there’s buzzing. 

 

A phone is ringing. 

 

They break apart, both breathless, their chests heaving against each other. Their lips are swollen, their cheeks flushed. Oliver is staring down at her with so much love in his eyes, she can hardly stand it. 

 

He leans over, looking towards his bedside table, a name flashing across the screen on call ID as it goest to voicemail. His head falls forward, his heart immediately sinks into his stomach. He knows this is wrong. He looks back towards her face, but his eyes are full of regret, and her heart squeezes painfully.

 

“It’s Susan.” 

 

Felicity looks as guilty as he feels, and he hesitantly crawls off of her and stands up. She awkwardly stands too, pulling her arms across her middle as if crawling back inside her shell. He’s scratching the back of his head, watching her wearily. 

 

“I should probably go,” the blonde whispers. 

 

He doesn’t trust his voice, so he just nods. He can’t hide the desire for her in his eyes. 

 

“Okay,” Felicity nods, moving around him, careful not to touch him. She picks up her now empty glass, moving towards the desk by the door and placing it down. “Thank you for… listening.”

 

Oliver’s shoulders are hunched forward and his voice is gruff when he responds. “I’m always here.” 

 

The weight of his words settle into the pit of her stomach, spreading warmly through her. Because she knows he means them. She backs away towards the door, feeling him moving behind her. She reaches and opens the door, and he catches it behind her. Stepping through, she turned back around and faced him.  

 

“Felicity…” 

 

His voice is heavy with something she can’t place. 

 

Felicity shakes her head, closing her eyes, and plastering a small fake smile on her face. There are tears in her eyes, and she doesn’t know how she finds her voice. “What happens in Russia stays in Russia.” 

 

And with the gravity of the familiarity of those words between them, she takes a step back and walks away.


End file.
